Hallucinations and Razor Blades
by xAnima-Bellax
Summary: Stiles sees people that should be dead. Derek tried to commit suicide when his family died. It's just by chance that they ended up being paired together in group therapy. They learn that they help each other be a little bit normal through all the craziness.
1. Chapter 1

So this is my new story. I honestly have no idea how I got this plot in my head or why the urge to write it was so strong. Any how I hope you guys like it.

It goes without saying that this is obviously an AU fiction.

The sheriff isn't Stiles' dad. Stiles' mom isn't dead. Rather or not there will be any werewolves has not been decided as of yet.

This is rated M for language and some violence and gore. I'm not sure about sexual content or not.

I don't have a beta so all mistakes are mine.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Teen Wolf. If I did, the show would be cancelled because me, Dylan and Tyler H. would be too busy having hot threesomes to film any scenes.

* * *

The first time it happened Stiles convinced himself that it was just a trick of the light. The second time he chalked it up to being tired, working too hard to get an A on his Psychology midterm. By the fourth time he was sure that he was going blind or at least something was really wrong with his eyes. By the tenth time, it had become a pattern and he knew that he was crazy.

It had started out with just one, an older man, probably a few years older than 30, with a hole in his head. Stiles noted that he was wearing a sheriff's uniform. He didn't say anything, didn't go 'boo!' like in the movies. He just stared at Stiles with this empty look that matched his state of being…dead. He wasn't there all the time when it first started, which was how Stiles convinced himself that he wasn't there at all. But eventually it got to the point where he was always there, hanging around in some dark corner, watching Stiles with dead eyes.

:: :: :: :: ::

The second one was a woman. She was young, in her early twenties. She only had one shoe and half of her brain was exposed, jagged cuts littering her face and arms. She appeared to Stiles while he was in the shower one day. He'd turned around from washing his face and she'd been there. She wore the same expression as the man, eyes dead and vacant. She didn't usually hang around in the day, reserving her haunting time for night when Stiles was tucked away in his bed. She didn't hide in the shadows either. She'd stand at the foot of his bed, not looking at him, but rather out the window; her expression never changing.

:: :: :: :: ::

It was the third one that really got to Stiles. It was a little girl in a light blue night gown, or what used to be a night gown. It was torn open down the front and whenever Stiles looked at her, he could see her bloody panties. She was bruised and bitten and her throat had been slit. She was the worst. She followed him everywhere, no matter what time of day or where he went. And at night she would sit next to him on his bed and hum the lyrics to Mary, Mary Quite Contrary. None of the other's talked and it made them easier to ignore, but she made these noises all the time. Sometimes Stiles could swear she was whispering his name.

:: :: :: :: ::

He ignored them for as long as he could. It was hard, but not impossible. During the day he'd find things to do that kept him thinking or talking. At night he'd close his eyes and listen to his roommate snore on the other side of the room, wishing pathetically that it was him. Sometimes he'd be able to doze off after too many nights pretending to be asleep. He found that he hated those nights because when he awoke the little girl would be petting his hair.

He needed something, anything to help him sleep. He was falling behind in his classes and he wasn't sure he could take much more. He didn't know how long a person could go without sleep before terrible things started to happen, but he figured that he must have been at least half way there. He felt as though he was crawling out of his skin and if something didn't give, he might have actually started clawing at his skin to rid himself of that restless sensation.

:: :: :: :: ::

It was his roommate, Scott, who gave him the Adderall for the first time. He'd noticed how restless Stiles was, how he was jumpy and paranoid.

They'd both been in their room; Scott playing a card game on his laptop while Stiles read his Western Civilization book for a test. Well, Stiles tried to read the book, but he couldn't focus on the words for more than a second without eyeing the haunters gathered at the foot of his bed. The little girl made her way over to Scott and started to pet his hair the way she'd do Stiles. Stiles watched on in horror, gasping sharply when she laid her head on Scott's shoulder.

Scott looked up at him, eyebrows raised in confusion and Stiles wondered if he really couldn't feel the girl's touch. Scott must have read his horrified expression as something else because he shook his head and put his laptop aside before giving Stiles his undivided attention.

"You need to seriously chill out man. Relax a little bit. What was the last time you had a good night's sleep?" he'd asked, looking Stiles over.

"I don't know," Stiles answered. It had been a little over a week, but it he couldn't be sure because most times he didn't know what day it was.

"Here, take this." Scott reached over into the night stand and tossed Stiles a bottle. "It's Adderall. I take it when I need to cram for a test, but you can use it as a sleep aid too. You keep that bottle. My supplier owes me a freebie." He tossed the bottle to Stiles and Stiles caught it only by reflex. "You're welcome."

Stiles eyed the bottle cautiously before snorting and tossing them onto his night stand. He didn't need drugs, especially speed. And he'd heard stories about kids like that who took drugs. He turned back to his Western Civilization book and started reading again. He'd all but forgotten the pills by the time he'd reached the next chapter.

:: :: :: :: ::

It took Stiles another three days to actually use the pills. He'd been sitting in his dorm, trying to study for his Spanish test, when he heard a rasping sound, like nails dragging along dry wood. He looked up from his book, to come face to face with yet another one. This one was a boy, who looked to be around Stiles age. He was terribly pale with punctures and lacerations and his shirt was hanging in shreds. Stiles tasted the acrid taste of bile rising as he gaze dropped to his stomach. Someone had completely butchered this guy. His stomach was cut open, inner organs completely gone. The muscles and tissue was shredded, hanging obscenely.

The first two had dead expressions. The little girl wore a sad, forlorn expression. But this one's face was completely twisted into that of rage and resentment. He let out this pitiful groan that quickly turned into a gut wrenching howl. It was filled with raw, negative emotions and it had Stiles getting up and running into the hall. Luckily the hall was bare, except for a couple of kids on down the corridor and no one was there to look at Stiles strangely.

He didn't return to his room until a little after midnight. The other three had followed him, but he hadn't seen the angry one since he'd fled the room. He was waiting on him, standing in front of the window, the moonlight giving him an ominous glow. Stiles grabbed the pills of his night stand, staring at the multicolored tablet before swallowing it quickly. He sat on his bed, back pressed into the corner, knees drawn up to his chest. He screwed his eyes shut and buried his face in his arms. He could still hear him, his loud wailing growing closer.

Stiles felt the cold, clammy grip of his fingers as they closed around the back of his neck. Besides the little girl, none of them had ever touched him. The hold on his neck tightened, moaning getting more aggressive. Stiles could feel the cool breath wash over his scalp. The moaning started to transform again, becoming more like a growl. The grip tightened more and Stiles cried out.

Then it was gone.

Stiles opened his eyes and noticed two things right off the back. He has lying in his bed, not in the position that he'd been in a moment ago. And the sun was shining. He sat up with a frown. The usual three were huddled in a corner, neither of them looking at him.

But there was no sign of the howler. Stiles got out of bed, grabbing the mirror that he kept in his night stand for emergencies. He crossed the room, going over to Scott's side, where there was another mirror hammered to the closet. He stood in front of the mirror, back facing it. He raised the mirror in his hand up and angled it so that he could see his neck.

Finger shaped bruises covered his neck, colored a dark red, turning purple around the edges. He frowned as he got a better look at them. Something was off about them, about the way that they looked, but he couldn't tell what it was.

"Hey man," Scott called as he burst into the room. He was sweaty and Stiles figured he must have just come from lacrosse practice.

"Hey," Stiles replied, returning to his bed. He looked at his phone and noted that it was 2:00 p.m.

"Did you sleep well? I mean you must have. I came home last night and you were knocked out, curled up in some weird ball. I straightened you and went to bed myself." Scott had that same carefree smile on his face. Usually it put Stiles at ease, but it had little affect now.

"Um, yeah. Thanks man," Stiles said, rubbing at the bruises on his neck. Had Scott seen them?

"No problem dude. How many did you take? You were sleep for like fourteen hours. I thought you were dead for a second." Scott was looking at him with concern.

"I, um, I only took one. I guess I was just really beat," Stiles replied, sitting down on his bed. He looked over towards the corner of the room. The three of them were still positioned where they'd been earlier. The howler was still M.I.A. and Stiles wasn't sure if he should be happy or concerned.

"Yeah, maybe. Just promise to be careful man. Adderall can be some serious shit man. Only take it when you need it." Stiles nodded, and Scott left shortly after.

Stiles let out a sigh and turned to his group of haunters.

"I should be studying. I guess I should go to the library. Come on troops. Let's move out."

That marked the first time he'd ever spoken to them.

:: :: :: :: ::

After that it became a habit. They never actually said anything back, but they would crowd a little closer to him, like they were moving in to hear him better. Sometimes they'd make these noncommittal noises that led Stiles to believe that they at least understood what he was saying. All in all it was kind of cool to have dead friends. They didn't tell him to shut up, or call him stupid. They couldn't leave so they were loyal to him. At least that's what he narrowed it all down to; they were drawn to him for some reason and if they could leave, they probably would have.

When people would give him weird looks he'd just smile at them and say that he was thinking out loud.

And of course he _did_ get strange looks from people who happened to be within hearing range of him during the times that he did talk to them. He knew how it must look; the odd kid who never really fit in anyway, huddled in a corner talking to himself. And theoretically he _was_ talking to himself. Granted there were actual people, or what used to be people, that followed him around and usually made some sound to let him know his rants weren't falling on death ears. But they were dead and by all means he shouldn't have been seeing them at all, let a one talking to them. So he wasn't really lying to them.

"Technically talking to yourself is still a bit on the cuckoo side," Stiles told the haunters. "But it's like a 3 on the scale of normal to batshit insane. I'm thinking that I'm hovering right over a good 6.5 myself."

And so what if he was being a bit modest with that score? People weren't whispering and pointing at him so he hadn't reached full on psycho yet. He was in between Britney mid haircut and Courtney Love on a good day. He went up an half a point when he decided he should give them names

In all fairness, he felt as though it made him a little saner. Giving them names made them more human and making them more human made them closer to being imaginary friends rather than fucking _stalker ghosts_. So what if he was too old to have imaginary friends? Mr. Porter talked to his _flowers_, which had a less likely chance of talking back than Stiles' ghostly pals. Besides, he couldn't keep referring to them as the haunters or the ghosts.

"I think I should name you first, seeing as how you got here before them," Stiles said with a hum. The man didn't acknowledge him other than the faint exhale of breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh. "Oh don't get all exasperated with me mister. I'm only trying to help."

Stiles looked him over. He was tall and thin, not very muscular, but held enough of a build to not totally get his ass handed to him. He looked like he could have been a runner, maybe. He was also pale, but Stiles chalked that up to being because he was dead and blood doesn't flow when you're dead. He had haunting –no pun intended – blue eyes and when Stiles stared at him, took in his blonde hair, he thought Paul Walker. And okay, this guy wasn't going to be mistaken for said actor, even if people could see him, but this was just to humor him. Rather Stiles meant to humor the ghost or himself, he wasn't quite sure. He wasn't sure if you could humor ghosts.

"What about Paul?" Stiles asked. The ghost's face twitched just a little bit, almost as if he were trying to frown. Stiles let out a short laugh. "Okay so not Paul. Any suggestions? Of course not. You want me to do all the work while you stand there and criticize me. Heaven forbid you try to help me." Stiles rambled on. The haunter made no move or sound.

"So you're ignoring me now? Some people…Okay, I'm just gonna fire off some names and you tell me when to stop. Let's start with A" Stiles listed several names, two for each letter. He went on for quite some time, the haunter not showing any signs of listening.

"Scott? No, I can't name you the same as my roommate. How weird would that be?"

Stiles continued for another three or four rounds. He'd gone through all of the names that he could think of, all the good ones any way. They all had character, had umph. But apparently Stiles had gotten stuck with an old fashioned haunter.

"Old fashion…" Stiles thought out loud. "How about Edward?" The haunter looked over to Stiles slowly and Stiles snickered. "_Edward_, _really_? How very _Twilight_ of you. Oh well, fine. You'll be Edward." The haunter, Edward, let out a slight gurgled hum. Stiles took that as an okay.

It took another two hours before he got names that the other two liked. He decided on Allison for the girl with the one shoe. It had been the very first name that he'd said and she'd looked at him with what he suspected should be a smile. It was the little girl that was hard to please. He literally went through every name that he'd ever heard of and she continued to ignore him. He'd say some names and pause, waiting for her reply.

She never would, she'd just sit there and hum that stupid nursery rhyme. Stiles wanted to kick himself when he thought about what she was humming. Apparently she liked the name Mary, although Stiles didn't understand why, because that nursery rhyme was supposedly about Bloody Mary…yet his Mary _was_ bloody.

He didn't name the other one, deciding to keep referring to him as _The Howler. _It fit. Stiles didn't think that he deserved a human name anyway, because rather he'd been human or not, he definitely wasn't now; and although the bruises on his neck had all but healed, the memory was still fresh. He hadn't seen The Howler since that night, not that he was complaining. He also hadn't taken another one of the pills.

He still wasn't sleeping, the bags under his eyes where proof enough of that, but he hadn't reached the point that he had before. He wasn't dead weight, could still think clearly enough to not just lurk around like a random creeper. He also felt as though he should save the Adderall for when he really needed it. He wasn't sure when this would be over, when he would wake up and not see dead people, but he wanted to be ready just in case it was later rather than sooner.

:: :: :: :: ::

It was another two weeks before he was dead weight again. He wasn't able to sleep longer than a couple of minutes at a time. He'd spend the night with his eyes shut, listening to the sounds that spread through the room. Scott would look at him with worried eyes, asking him if he was taking the pills. Stiles would always push his concerns aside and assure him that he was fine, that he was saving the Adderall for when it got unbearable.

:: :: :: :: ::

It was an additional 48 hours before The Howler appeared. Just like last time, he was busy writing his World History paper when he heard the rasping of nails on wood. He looked up slowly, hoping it wasn't, but expecting The Howler. He was right to expect. He had that same angry expression. He was growling low in his throat, eyes boring holes into Stiles' head.

Stiles couldn't help the shriek that left his mouth. He got up from his study desk, scrambling back until his back hit the wall. The Howler followed him, groaning getting steadily louder. Stiles shut his eyes, squeezing them as tight as he could. He prayed silently, hoping that The Howler would leave. His prayers fell on silent ears. He felt the stale, cool breath on his face and the hairs on the back of his neck stood one end. Cold, clammy fingers wrapped around Stiles wrist.

"Please, please, please…"Stiles chanted desperately. His eyes were still shut, but tears of fear escaped his eyes anyway, running down his face as wet trails of despair.

The stiff fingers tightened into a gradually, but surely painful squeeze. Stiles bit at his bottom lip, letting one lone and pitiful whimper escape. _It isn't real. It isn't real,_ he thought repeatedly. But the grip on his wrist kept him from truly believing it. He could feel the way that the bones in his wrist rubbed against each other in a pitiful grind.

The tears were rolling more freely now, even though his eyes were still firmly shut. The Howler's groan getting louder, progressing into that awful howl that he got his name for. The grip was unbearably painful now and Stiles was sobbing in pain freely. _The pills! I need the Adderall, _he thought through his agony.

Stiles fumbled blindly around the drawers of his desk until he felt the familiar cylinder of a medication bottle. He opened the top clumsily and popped two pills, swallowing them down thickly. He didn't have anything to wash them down with, but drastic times called for drastic measures. His wrist was practically numb with pain now, and besides the awful howling, everything else didn't seem so real anymore. He opened his eyes, screaming at The Howler's face. He could see the burn marks all over his face.

He saw the anger there in The Howler's eyes. He didn't understand it. He didn't understand the pure hatred that The Howler held. The other haunters were seemingly sad, oppressed even by their deaths. But The Howler held a rage about him that Stiles didn't understand. He didn't really care to at this point, he just wanted him gone. He shut his eyes and willed The Howler away.

It didn't happen the same as it did last time, Stiles noted. He felt his body shutting down, consciousness fading away into apathetic calmness. The slow lull of sleep descended on him gradually. He felt as though he was floating, drifting away on a bed of nothingness and empty air. His wrist still hurt, and he realized that he might need to let someone look at it.

Right now, however, he couldn't find the necessary concern to care about much more of anything other than sleeping. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, his conscious told him that this wasn't what healthy sleep was supposed to be like. This was more of a coma than a resting nap, but he couldn't find the urge to move his body and just continued to drift off to a place that wasn't filled with haunters.

He woke up later to Scott's worried face and he just knows that he's been out for too long. He sat up slowly, finding that his body aches dully all over. He ran a hand through his hair, noting that it's been a while since he had a haircut, and laughed. He'd just waking up from a drug induced sleep and that's what he was thinking? Scott's expression grew even more troubled and Stiles figured that he should do some damage control.

"How…um…How long was I out?" He asked rubbing at the back of his neck. The bruises were completely gone, but sometimes he could feel the phantom pressure from when the injury was inflicted.

"Three days," Scott said. He had a scared look on his face and Stiles couldn't help but feel guilty. "Stiles, man are you sure you're not abusing? Because I thought you were dead man. I came in and you were passed out on the fucking floor, not moving, not responding."

"You didn't call the police did you?" Stiles asked albeit frantically. His mom and dad would kill him if they found out.

"No, but I should have! God Stiles, do you know how freaked out I was? The only think that kept me from running to the FBI was the fact that I could hear you breathing. How many did you take?" Scott demanded more than asked.

"I took two," Stiles admitted guiltily. He knew that it was a stupid thing to do, but at the time he was in pain and three seconds away from an aneurysm. And so thinking clearly wasn't very high on his list of important shit to remember when in a crisis, sue him. At the end of the day, staying a live by any means automatically shot up the list.

"Are you fucking insane?!" Okay, _ouch_. Scott obviously wasn't very friendly in high stress situations. "I told you that you have to be careful with that fucking shit man. It's speed! "

"Okay, let's not get so overly dramatic." And Stiles was brushing it off. That's what he did. Shit got real, Stiles got evasive…or just completely gone with the wind. And seeing as how making a run for it was probably the worst thing he could do, this was second best.

"Overly dramatic? Stiles I don't think you understand the seriousness of the situation at hand. You were passed out for three days! That's a fucking coma, dude. You know what, I should have never given that shit to you."

"I was just really tired. I hadn't slept in like two weeks. I'm not abusing," So what if Stiles sounded really defensive.

"Really? Cause' I gotta tell you, saying 'I'm not abusing' is something you say when you're fucking abusing. You could fucking die if you don't use it right." Scott sounded exasperated by now and his irritation was bordering full blown panic.

"It's a prescription drug! You can only use it right if the doctor gives it to you!" Stiles snorted.

He knew that he was being a dick, more than a dick, but this was his life and Scott had no idea what he was going through. Hell, he didn't know exactly what it was that he was going through. This was all too much. But who could he talk to about it? Who would believe him and not think that something was seriously wrong with him? He didn't totally believe that he was all together there mentally. How could he trust another to not commit him?

Scott shook his head, somber look on his face. "Stiles, you've been my roommate since freshman year. You've been the face that I've waken up to for two years. You're like a brother to me man. I can't deal with you being like this. Whatever this is, rather it's the drugs or something completely different, it's changing you."

"I'm still me. I'm still Stiles," Stiles assured. Scott shook his head again.

"This isn't you! The Stiles I know doesn't overdose on pills and end up in a three day coma. When was the last time you've even been to class? Your Psychology teacher stopped me and asked if you were sick or something."

"What did you tell him?" Stiles asked nervously. He hadn't been attending classes regularly, but he still had a chance to pass…so long as Scott didn't go telling people that he was a druggie.

"I told him that you were sick, that you haven't been yourself. And I didn't even have to lie about it. Stiles, man you've got to get better. Whatever this is, if you need help, I'm here for you." Scott got up and left, leaving Stiles to reflect on his feelings.

He could understand what Scott meant, but Scott only knew the surface of the problem. Things were so much worse than Scott understood. Stiles didn't know what to do. If he kept things up this way he'd flunk out. He didn't want that.

He couldn't go home, his parents would kill him. Not to mention that his home life pretty much sucked anyway. Plus he really didn't want to give his parents the privilege of being right about him being a slacker. He'd managed to shut them up when he'd gotten accepted into college and he wasn't about to prove them right now, especially after his father had put so much money into his tuition. They'd never let him live it down. Going home to his parents would definitely be out. And if he went home, his parents would notice his behavior. He'd end up in an asylum for sure. Things were so royally fucked up right now. One thing was sure though.

He wasn't going to stop taking Adderall.

As long as he didn't get too tired, The Howler was M.I.A. Sure he was playing with fire. He knew how serious Adderall could be. He'd had a momentary lapse of judgment that had him taking more than he should have. Now he knew better than to do that. He just had to figure out a way to make sure that he didn't over do it with the pills. How hard could that be? He'd only take one pill every two to three days and that would keep The Howler away.

He could only hope.

* * *

Considering that I wrote this in segments over a week or two and the fact that it wasn't written in order, I liked the way it came out. I personally don't think that it was dark enough, but I hope that the creepy factor is still there. I also feel like it could have been a little longer, but I didn't want to overwhelm you or give away too much too soon, especially seeing as how I'm not even sure rather you guys will like this. I'm super excited to hear what you guys have to say.

Criticism is always welcomed. Bashing is not.

**Review and don't sugarcoat it.**


	2. Chapter 2

So first let me start by saying I'm terribly sorry about how ridiculously long it has taken me to update. I kinda got out of writing and then some things happened in my personal life that had me all screwed up in the head. Then there's the fact that my laptop is still a piece of shit and will just randomly cut off in the middle of me writing – a fact that is extremely discouraging – So I've been banished back to the desktop…which I have a love/hate relationship with.

Anyhow, I plan to try to update much more regularly.

I know how I want this to end, and honestly I think that it's gonna be epic. But I've been known to speak too soon.

**Boy On Strings**, **LowLifeTheory, ****and 74days** are by far my favorite writers in fanfiction. I think that it would be **EPIC** if they ever collaborated on something. It is one of my biggest wishes that they like my writing….that and I get over a 100 reviews. I figure all of that will come in due time. I'm rambling, so on with the plot.

**BTW: I originally wrote Scott, whose Stiles roommate in this story, as an original character named Tim. I had plans to use Scott in a different way, but later changed my mind. I've gone back and changed all of the Tims to Scotts, but if I happened to miss any, I wanted to let you guys know about the mix up. And I think it's pretty obvious who the first haunter is, but if I need to clarify on who any of the hunters are, I will. Just let me know.**

* * *

The last month of Stiles' life had been bittersweet.

Bitter because he was still being haunted, still losing sleep, still insane by normal people's standards. And his relationship with Scott was under some serious stress as of late. Scott was constantly watching him, always lurking and waiting on Stiles to show some sign that he was abusing, that he wasn't okay. By all means, Stiles was definitely not okay. He was far fucking from being anywhere near the neighborhood of okay. But Scott didn't know all of that and what he didn't know couldn't hurt him…hopefully.

Sweet because as fucking dangerous as Adderall was, he wasn't seeing The Howler. And okay, that was pretty much the only sweet thing about his life at this point because his grades had fallen and he was on academic probation. His parents had emailed him with concern because apparently his Psychology professor was shitting a brick about his absences. He'd spent a shit load of time composing emails that let his parents know that their money wasn't being wasted, followed by an hour long conversation letting him know that he couldn't come back home without a diploma.

He still wasn't going to be in any commercials advertising good sleep, but he wasn't a zombie. The other haunters still stuck around, sometimes even letting out gargled words and noises of comprehension. But Stiles could deal with them easy. Besides Scott, who was surprising into his work this semester and didn't have tons of time to hang out anymore, they were the only friends he had. And that was really fucking sad because they were ghosts, dead people, and he was the only who could even see them.

He wasn't complaining too much. They weren't The Howler. They were nothing like him. It was interesting in a 'I'm fucking crazy and want to know more about the creepy ghost that I'm pretty sure wants to eat my fucking soul' kind of way. Stiles found himself wondering what happened to him, why he was the way he was. Was he insane and abusive before his death? Or was his death so horrible and gruesome that he decided to say fuck it, and terrorize anyone who could see him.

Which brought Stiles to another question, why was he the one that they came to?

It wasn't like he went around advertising his ability to see the dead. Up until this started, he didn't know that he even had said ability. And he wasn't out somewhere and saw them floating around. They came to him. They just showed up one day and didn't leave. They didn't seem to want anything, didn't make any demands.

It went against every show or movie he'd ever seen about haunting. They always wanted something, always had some type of motive. And unless he'd just gotten the laziest haunters ever, they weren't doing a very good job at…well haunting him. He didn't understand it, but he wasn't going to go demanding that they try to possess him or knock his things over.

Ignoring things that perplexed him wasn't something that he was grand at, however. He ended up researching cases that seemed similar to his. He didn't exactly find anything solid or even remotely useful. Everyone who claimed to have been haunted always had the telltale signs that Stiles did not. Their haunters always demanded something, wanting something that they felt the haunted could provide. They did something more than Stiles' bunch of dead misfits did.

Then there was the subject of The Howler. That search ended up being insightful, yet more perplexing than the previous. There were tons of reasons why the dead might be angry, even harmful. All of them involved horrible, unjustified deaths. And while that revelation did clear a few things up for Stiles, it also opened a door way to a ton of different questions. Unfortunately, all of the websites had tons of information that didn't seem to apply to Stiles.

There was one case that sparked Stiles' interest. There was an article, much smaller and scarce compared to the others, but whoever said that less was more had hit the nail on the head. It suggested that the haunted were never chosen by chance, but rather by a series of events, often mistaken as coincidences. There was always a reason, a way that all of the haunters and the haunted were somehow tied into each other.

:: :: :: :: ::

The thought that he was somehow tied in to the deaths of his haunters was intriguing and led him to want to learn more. He found it hard to concentrate on anything else. He'd sit down to work on his homework and he'd end up staring at Allison, Edward, and Mary, wondering how they ended up where they were. It didn't help that the Adderall made it really hard for him to think. His thoughts were constantly jumbled, racing through his mind at paces too fast for him to follow.

And there were the time gaps.

They were weird and really fucking scary. The first time he realized that he was having them was when he was walking back to his dorm from the library. He was walking down the sidewalk, whistling while Mary trailed after him. He started to feel weird, slow and fast at the same time. The next thing he knew, he was standing in front of his dorm door, Scott asking him if he was alright. He shook it off, reassured Scott and immediately went to bed. Scott came in a few minutes later, standing at the foot of his bed, gazing down at him with worry. Stiles didn't sleep at all that night, too freaked out to take the Adderall.

After that Stiles noticed a pattern. He takes his Adderall every other day. He has at least one black out episode every week. And okay he figures that maybe that's enough of a reason to be worried about how the Adderall is affecting his body, but he doesn't. Adderall may have been hurting his body, but he didn't feel that pain. The Howler's fingers wrapped around his sprang wrist he could feel though, and if it came down to being a junkie and being killed by a psycho ghost that only he could see, he'd take his chances with Adderall.

:: :: :: :: ::

Which is how he ended up where he is now.

Okay, he doesn't really know how he ended up here; here being the library. But he knows why he doesn't know how he ended up here. The last conscious thought that he had was that his stomach was on a mission to digest his entire body. He remembers leaving the dorm, passing a cute upperclassman on the way to the cafeteria. That was at 12. It's 10 now and he has now idea what his demon shell has run around doing for the past ten fucking hours. Or why he found the need to be at the library.

It was dark, signaling that the library would be practically empty except for the usual crammer or work-a-holic scattered about the wings. Stiles looked around the aisle he was standing in. It was filled with clips and slides of old newspaper articles. He frowned in confusion. He'd never been in this section before, outside of a required tour for freshmen that is, and he didn't have any classes that called for this type of research. He turned to exit the library when a thud attracted his attention. He turned around, but didn't see anyone. He turned to walk away again, and heard it once more.

Had Mary not been standing there he would have missed it. Sitting on the floor was a single slide. He picked it up, looking at it curiously. He put it back on the shelf just to have it fall again. He picked it up more curiously that time, turning it over in his hand. He walked over to the projectors and clicked it in place.

_**HALE FIRE STILL UNDER CLOSE EXAMINATION. POLICE SUSPECT FOUL PLAY.**_

Stiles was about to read the rest of the article when he heard the scratching. He went deathly still, afraid to even breathe. _No, no this isn't happening. Not now. _He heard the foot steps, thick and heavy against the silence of the library, and could feel the harsh glare of hatred burning into the back of his skull. He needed his pills, but they were on the other side of the campus. He needed help, but how could he call for it? What would he say? He needed to run, but he was paralyzed with cold fear.

His lungs were burning painfully now, and he desperately needed to inhale but he couldn't for fear that The Howler would suddenly spring on him in a fit of rage. He screwed his eyes shut and breathed in shakily when he felt he might pass out. He heard the groan, low and awful, and tears started to form immediately.

"Please go away," he whispered. It was the first time he'd ever said anything to The Howler and all he got in reply was a deep growl. "What do you want from me?"

The Howler let out a loud howl then, much louder than it had ever been before and Stiles felt a pulse of energy surge forward and push him into the adjacent bookshelf. His back exploded in pain and his vision swam. Through the blurriness he was able to make out the legs of The Howler coming towards him. He scrambled to get up, but his legs felt like jelly. He was able to pull himself up using the shelves of the bookcase. He could hear people talking, coming towards him, but they were too far away and he had to move now if he wanted to get away from The Howler.

He was face to face with The Howler now, angry blue eye's glaring into his own brown ones. His mind told him that he should be moving, running away, but he was paralyzed with stone cold fear. The Howler's hand reached out then, almost quicker than Stiles could comprehend, and scratched at Stiles' face. Stiles felt the sharp nails, almost like claws, digging into the side of his face. The Howler snatched his hand down in the same quick pace and Stiles cried out in agony as fire erupted in his cheek.

The Howler lashed out again, howling loudly and pitifully. Stiles was prepared for the attack then, using his arms to block the oncoming assault. His arms were burning at the sensation of The Howler's claw-like fingers digging into his skin and he could feel the blood running down his face. He etched back, got a good enough distance between The Howler's hands and himself, and tried to flee. His legs were still weak and his vision was still swimming in both confusion and terror.

The Howler was after him then, Stiles could hear the drag of nails on the wood of the bookshelves and the thud of heavy footsteps. He felt the familiar fire spread across his shoulder blades and upper back. He fell when a heavy weight came down upon him. He dragged his body clumsily across the floor until he reached a wall. He mustered up all the strength in his body and pushed The Howler of him. He sagged against the wall, trying to regain his senses. Mentally, he knew that he should be trying to get away, that he needed to get to his pills; physically, it was impossible to get very far. His body was aching and his head was swimming. His vision was going in and out, flickering like an old light bulb and Stiles wondered if this was what it was like when he blacked out. He'd never remembered blacking out in the first place, but wasn't that the point of it having been called blacking out.

His chest was hurting and he couldn't catch his breath. Past experiences let him no that he was close to having a panic attack, which was not what he needed right now. The Howler was growling again. Stiles wasn't sure if which was worse. The howling was loud and nerve shattering, but the growl was low and menacing, like that of a wolf's and it made Stiles edgy. The Howler sat out for him again and he closed his eyes tightly, praying that he'd just go away. He felt the stale breath on his face, cooling the drying streaks of blood

:: :: :: :: ::

He reached out blindly, scratching and thrashing wildly when hands grabbed painfully at his arms. A terrified shriek reached his ears and then there were voices and other hands. He opened his eyes, blinked away the terrified tears and frowned in confusion when a frighten girl stared back at him. There were two guys there too and Stiles recognized him slightly from one of his lecture halls. He looked around frantically, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. He spotted The Howler backing into the shadows of one of the aisles, blue eyes glaring hatefully before disappearing into the darkness. Stiles blinked again, willing the confusion away, though it didn't go far.

He could see the guy, something Greenberg, saying something to him. He could see his mouth moving, but the words were slurred and gargled, like Stiles was under water. He frowned and shook his head, as if to shake away whatever was blocking his ears. Stiles concentrated on his lips and forced the fog away.

"-wrong? Are you okay?"

"D…Did…you see?" Stiles asked frantically. They all looked at each other and then back at Stiles. Stiles could see the confusion on their faces, but he needed to know rather or not he'd finally gone off the deep end.

"See what?" Greenberg asked. He turned to the girl, who was still eyeing Stiles rather cautiously. "What happened? Did he attack you?"

_Attack her?_ _What the fuck was going on? _

He hadn't attacked anybody. He'd been attacked. Didn't they see his wounds? He lifted his arms, with some difficulty because the two idiots were still holding him down, to look at the damage. There were deep scratched all over his arms and his back and face still burned so it couldn't have been all in his head. The other guy, Wes – or at least Stiles thought he'd heard Greenberg call him that – looked at his wounds.

"Check it out dude. He's all scratched up." He sounds scared, like he thought that it was a chance that they'd all get expelled for whatever was going on. Stiles would have snorted at his paranoia if he hadn't been in so much pain. _Wes doesn't know the meaning of the word paranoia. Try being haunted by various ghosts and then there's the case of the psycho who did this to me._

"Did you do that to him?" Greenberg asked the girl.

She shook her head frantically. "He was like that when I got to him. He must have thought that I was trying to hurt him. His eyes were closed."

"Are you hurt babe?" Was this her boyfriend or something? Greenberg was still glaring at Stiles and Stiles would have rolled his eyes if he wasn't so terrified.

"A little spooked, but I'm fine. It's him we should be worried about. Look at him. He needs medical attention," She replied.

Stiles' brain finally caught up with him. They were going to take him to the hospital. They were going to ask all types of questions that Stiles wouldn't be able to answer. They'd call his parents and he'd have to go home. This was all turning into a big mess. Shit was getting much too messy and he couldn't keep up with what was going on.

"I'm fine," Stiles wheezed, struggling to get up. Wes let him go, but Greenberg tightened his grip reluctantly. "Let me go. I said I'm fine."

"You attacked my girl," Greenberg stated. He didn't raise his voice, just stared at him blankly while his grip tightened around Stiles' already sore arm.

"Let me go," Stiles gritted out. He wasn't sure where the anger was coming from. Maybe it was the stress of everything that was going on. Maybe he just had a low tolerance for this Greenberg asshole. He gathered up all of the negative emotions in his chest and projected them into his eyes.

Greenberg let him go, though it took his girl friend and Wes to persuade him. Stiles forced himself up and took a breath when his body protested the movements. His legs felt heavy and his body was stiff with exhaustion. He idly wondered how he could make it back to his dorm when he could barely stand, but he could still hear the groans of The Howler seeping from the shadows and he needed to get to safety. Though now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure where safety was anymore. He'd been taking the Adderall on a tight schedule and he shouldn't have been seeing The Howler at all.

Something was different, something was wrong. Fuck, everything was wrong. He was seeing the dead. He was being attacked by the dead. He was having blackouts and now he'd attacked an innocent girl – no matter how terrified he was when she approached him. People were already steering clear of him and with the blackouts, he couldn't be sure what he was doing in between the periods of clarity.

It was all getting to be too much. But who could he talk to? He couldn't talk to his parents. They barely understood him when he wasn't seeing ghosts and being attacked in the library. His professors would lead no where good. He supposed that he could come clean to Scott, but he doubted that the other boy would be relieved to find that Stiles was taking the Adderall so frequently. He felt alone, utterly and terrifyingly alone, lost in a sea of confusion, pain, and a mind numbing fear that was starting to wear him out.

He felt hands on his arms and he tensed and threw his body weight back instinctively. Wes looked a bit frightened, but Stiles couldn't find the strength to care.

"We're gonna walk you to your dorm dude. You obviously can't make it on your own." Stiles wasn't sure if he was referring to the fact that he could barely stand or the fact that he was so anxious he was about to crawl out of his already shredded skin.

"The fuck we are! The freak wanted to go, let him. He's not our problem," Greenberg hissed in what Stiles suspected was supposed to be an inconspicuous whisper – though Stiles didn't doubt that the douche-bag cared rather or not he heard anyway.

"We can't just leave him here! He's terrified!" Greenberg's girlfriend replied sternly and Stiles felt even worse about trying to claw her eyes out. He absently wished to himself that they'd met under different circumstances; she seemed like the kind of friend that he was seriously lacking from his life.

"She's right man. I wouldn't be able to sleep with myself if we just left him here." Stiles found that he was growing fonder of Wes as well, nervous personality aside.

"What if he spazzes out again?" Greenberg asked incredulously.

"He was attacked by someone." Or something, Stiles corrected in his mind.

"We didn't see anyone," Wes pointed out and Stiles retracted his earlier comment. Wes could continue to be friends with Green-douche.

"So he attacked himself?" the young female asked sarcastically.

"_He_ is right here," Stiles chimed in, trying to stand again. He was slowly regaining his strength, but there was still quite a bit of distance between him and the dorms. Wes and Greenberg's girlfriend were by his side, helping him.

"We're taking him," she said finally, leaving no room for argument from her boyfriend. Stiles would have argued himself, but The Howler chose that moment to let out a particularly nasty growl that had shivers of dread running rapidly down his spine. He prattled off his dorm address without a second thought and prayed to whatever deity was listening that they got there without anything happening.

:: :: :: :: ::

All things considered, the trip back to Stiles' dorm could have been a hell of a lot worse than the awkward silence and occasion pain filled grimace on his part. Where ever The Howler was, it seemed he'd be staying there – or at least Stiles hopes cause it seems that he really had it out for him – and Stiles was able to relax a little bit more. Relaxation was a fickle thing now, seeing as how it seemed The Howler was officially calling the shots and coming when he damn well pleased.

Greenberg was only there as a means of supervision. He didn't help when Stiles stumbled or sagged and Stiles was willing to bet that he probably would have stepped on him if he'd fallen over. He couldn't say he cared cause this wasn't exactly a good time for Stiles either, but part of him couldn't help but be a little affronted. Although he was apparently a little loco, Stiles was one of the good guys and Greenberg was watching him out the corner of his eye as though he expected Stiles to sprout horns and black, leathery wings and fly into the darkness. Stiles had to remind himself that this was reality, and he couldn't compare this to one of his comic book themes, despite the fact that he's involved in the supernatural.

They reach his dorms quicker than he anticipated and yet still much to slow for his liking. He wants to just climb in bed and pretend that this never happened. Come to think of it, he's been doing a lot of that kind of wishing and it seems more and more likely everyday that it's not going to happen. They follow him – well honestly, they're carrying him, but that's a big blow to what's left of his ego so he'd much rather pretend that he's walking on his own – into the foyer and he wanted to protest, tell them that he's more than capable of riding the elevator up to his floor. But then he thought he heard scratching on wood and he's not turning the company down.

:: :: :: :: ::

The floor that he lives on is weirdly quiet and he idly wonders what time it is. He's pretty sure that it's a Friday – while he can't be too sure of very much these days – and he thinks that maybe everyone's out partying and doing normal college shit that he's missed out on _because he's being fucking haunted._ He doesn't have much time to reflect on it because Greenberg, bastard that he is, is practically pushing him against the cold, heavy wood of his door and Stiles thinks that maybe he's trying to push Stiles through it.

He searches for his keys, panicking when he thinks that maybe he dropped them somewhere in the library – and God does he hope that isn't the case because he'll sleep in the hall on the floor before he goes back there tonight. He finds them eventually, and fumbles with them, the dim lights of the hall helping only a little to aid his tired eyes. He's growing frustrated quickly because he can't get the key in the slot and it's just dawned on him that he's not only been attacked, but he's attacked an innocent girl and completely embarrassed himself in front of three people who probably already find him inferior. He notices the tears and is mortified that he's crying. Greenberg's girlfriend is there then, gently taking the keys from his hand and opening the door. He hums a 'thanks' and pushes the heavy door open with some effort.

He half expects to see Scott's body balled up in the fetal position that he denies sleeping in, but isn't too surprised when he doesn't. Scott's social life has picked up since he's made the lacrosse team and if the rest of the floor is at a party, Stiles doubts that Scott would be holed up in his dorm waiting for him. Part of him is happy that Scott's gone. That means that he can avoid the awkward conversation that's going to result from his injuries. But part of him is disappointed because he really doesn't want to stay the night in this fucking room by himself. He's pretty sure The Howler isn't going to stop until he's dead.

"There, he's home. Can we go now?" Greenberg whined and Stiles realizes that he's sort of just standing there lost.

"Um, thanks for everything I guess. I'm sorry about what…happened," He offers lamely. Greenberg rolls his eyes and Wes gives a jerky nod.

"Let's go babe," Greenberg calls to his girlfriend. She glares at him.

"I'll be out in a minute," she replies. "As a matter of fact, why don't you two go ahead? I'll catch up with you at the club."

He looks as though he's about to argue, but when her glare intensifies he relents. He slams the door with a dramatic thud and it becomes clear to Stiles who has the vagina in the relationship. The dark haired girl giggles and Stiles realizes that he's said that out loud. It's quiet and Stiles has never been good with girls so he just kind of stands there like an idiot. She takes pity on him and breaks the silence.

"I'm Melissa by the way," she says. Melissa, it suits her in the weird way that names could suit a person.

"So I guess now it would be just plain rude to refer to you as douche bag's girlfriend in my head," Stiles laughs awkwardly and he thinks that maybe it's a good thing he likes dick because this is just painful and he's not sure he could ever talk to girls in a casual way. Melissa laughs at him and Stiles feels a little better about this situation. "I'm Stiles."

"I'm sorry about him. He's a basic human male. Bring home the food and protect the women, that one," she jokes. "He's just being an overprotective idiot."

"He has every right to be." And there goes the light mood she'd just created, but Stiles needs to address this. He won't be able to sleep tonight if he doesn't…not that he actually plans on doing any sleeping after what's happened.

"I don't know what happened," Melissa states cautiously. "But whatever it was, it wasn't your fault."

"You're the only one who thinks that," Stiles says. He means between her, Greenberg and Wes, but he's not 100% positive that he's not included in that as well.

"Whatever," She says dismissively. "They weren't there. Well, I wasn't really there either, but whatever happened wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. Except for the creep that did that to you. Who was it anyway?"

Stiles swallowed thickly. He couldn't very well say that it was a ghost. "I…um…he's…I mean he…" Stiles stuttered. He had no fucking clue what to say.

"I see," Melissa says slowly and Stiles wonders if she truly does. "I hope that he doesn't come back. How long have the two of you been separated?"

Stiles looks at her in confusion. She raises an eyebrow expectantly and looks in the direction of the wall next to his headboard. Stiles follows her gaze and spots the rainbow flag Scott had gotten him as a gag when Stiles had come out to him. He'd all but forgotten it, had only hung it up as a constant reminder of what a perfect, jerk of a friend Scott was. It clicks to him that Melissa suspects that an angry ex-boyfriend has down this and he doesn't go against it.

"On and off, you could say. More off than on, but he pops up occasionally and things go to shit," he answers. He's being truthful in a way. She looks at him in pity before sitting on his bed. He stands awkwardly until she pats the bed beside her. It's pathetic that he's waiting on permission to sit next to a girl on his own bed, in his own room.

"Honey," she says, studying the side of his face that's scratched and Stiles remembers that he hasn't seen the damage – he also wonders what kind of abusive boyfriend scratches, unless he's in a relationship with a blender or a paper shredder. "You can't stay in an abusive relationship."

"I can't really get away. He always finds me." Stiles feels kind of bad for talking about something completely different than Melissa is, but its easier that she doesn't know. "I guess I really don't get much say in the matter."

"You always have a choice Stiles. It's up to you to seek out help, but there always is help." Stiles thinks that maybe that advice doesn't apply to him. He doesn't even know where to start getting help from. "Does he do it often?" she asks, running her fingers over the tender flesh around his wounds. Stiles shrugs passively.

"A couple of times, maybe twice. But never this bad. I'm scared, but I don't have anyone to talk to," Stiles admits pathetically.

"Oh sweetie, you have me. Who gives a shit if we've only met tonight? And maybe it wasn't under the best terms, but look at it as a blessing in disguise." Stiles smiles at that and thinks that its unfair that he had to meet her the way he did.

"I'm sorry about that, by the way," Stiles states slowly.

"Trying to gouge my eyes out? Honey, that's a regular Friday night for me," she jokes and Stiles thinks that he may be in love and maybe it could work, because if Greenberg had the vagina, she had to have had his dick right? "But if you really wanna make it up to me, let me clean up your wounds. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I let you go without at least some type of medical attention."

Stiles would have argued with her, wanted to, but she gave him the same look she'd given Greenberg and maybe she had his dick too. She smiled at him in victory and got a first aid kit from her bag. Stiles eyed the kit curiously.

"I'm in nursing school. It's kind of mandatory that we haul this around. Comes in handy from time to time. It's a bitch to keep stocked though," she explains. Stiles nods in understanding and thanks God that he'd chosen Forensic Science. He has a new respect for her, and he idly thinks that he can't possible like her anymore than now.

She inspects the wounds on his cheek first. She's almost impossibly gentle and Stiles wonders if he's lost all feeling in that side of his face. She cleans his face, chatting idly about her childhood and Greenberg and why she wanted to become a nurse and Stiles gets lost in her voice. She's so much of a mother hen that she scolds him when he scratches at his face when she puts anesthetic on his cheek. It saddens him a little, thinking that she's giving him more attention and TLC than his own mother, but he supposes that some people just don't have that loving, nurturing side. She finishes his face and moves on to his arms and then his back. He knew that there would be a few bruises, but from the way she breathes out after he lifts his shirt, it's a little more extensive than he'd expected.

"All in all," she says once she's done. "I think you'll be fine. You'll be sore as all hell and your head is going to be killing you for a couple of hours, but there's nothing broken. I wish you'd go to the ER cause I suspect that you may have a bruised rib or two," she looks at him sternly before sighing.

"But since I know you won't, all I can tell you is take it easy and take a couple of high dosage painkillers if it gets unbearable. I don't think your face will scar, but I want to keep an eye on it anyway so don't be surprised if I pop up from time to time."

"Are you sure it's not because I'm so devilishly handsome?" Stiles asks slyly, wriggling his eyebrows. Melissa laughs whole heartedly.

"Oh yeah, you're a real stud muffin. I'm barely holding myself back now," she jokes. She looks away to when he changes into some pajama bottoms and Stiles is reminded that she's around the same age as him and not the caring mom he'd categorized her to be. "You have ADD?" she asks when he's done changing.

"No," Stiles states slowly. He turns around to see her holding up the Adderall bottle. Well fuck. "Oh,"

"Oh?" She asks incredulously.

"I have ADHD," Stiles replied suddenly. "There's a difference."

Melissa obviously doesn't believe him, and he can't say he blames her. But he can't go around telling people he's doing speed.

"I'm going to take your word for it, but I hope you know what you're dealing with." She sounds a lot like Scott and Stiles reflexively rolls his eyes and jobs into defense mode.

"Of course I know what I'm dealing with. I'm not abusing," he replies, taking the bottle from her and putting in a drawer. He has to remember to be more careful.

"I didn't say you were," she points out and Stiles thinks that he's just been caught. "I'm a little afraid to give you the painkillers now."

"I'm not abusing," he insists. He holds her gaze, though he wants to look away, because he wants her to believe he has nothing to hide.

"So you've said," she replies. "I'm going to go, before Greg comes back and throws me over his shoulder. You…be careful."

She leaves and Stiles suddenly feels like the world's biggest asshole. He catches something flickering out the corner of his eye and his heart speeds up in fear. He relaxes when he see's its only Edward, then his face knots up in confusion. With the exception of Mary in the library – who was mysteriously MIA when he was getting his ass handed to him by The Howler – he hasn't seen the haunters much today. Stiles wonders if The Howler has anything to do with that. It's just Edward now. He has no idea where Allison and Mary are and he questions if they've left for good. He'd read that you could conjure the dead up if you want to, but he has no idea how or if it's even a good idea.

He would have just gone to bed without thinking about it much more, but then a thought occurs to him. The Howler never bother's him when the other haunters are around. They're always there before or after he shows up, but never during and Stiles thinks that maybe they keep him away. He decides to try conjuring them. He closes his eyes and visualizes Mary – who is the smallest and who should be, in Stiles' mind, the easiest to bring forth – he pictures her, making sure that all the details about her are the same. They've been with him for months now, so he has their images burned into his memory. He sees her in his mind standing in the room in front of Scott's bed. He wills his mental image to be fact and once he's sure that the visual can't get anymore precise, he opens his eyes.

He lets out a grunt of victory when he sees the little girl, staring back at him in an almost curious way. He closes his eyes and tries again, this time picturing Allison. It works, though it takes a little longer, and all things considered, he's feeling pretty damn proud of himself. Allison walks towards him slowly, reaching her arms out to touch his injured cheek. She makes a noise in her throat, almost like a growl and Stiles gets a flashback of The Howler and jerks away. Allison, Edward nor Mary has ever hurt him before, but he's edgy tonight. She gives what he can only describe as an apologetic face before standing next to Edward at the foot of his bed. Mary is sitting at the foot as well, her back pressed against the wall. Stiles can't help but think that they look as though their guarding him. It eases his mind.

He still takes a pill before going to bed though.

* * *

So I must admit that I kinda hit a brick wall in the middle of writing this. It was frustrating and overall things, just plain painful to my mood. But I was **FINALLY** able to read **Best Thing** by **74days **and it gave me some clarity. **74days** is a Mother Fudgin' **AWESOME** writer and she inspired me to hash it out with my writer's block and push through it. You guys feel free to tell her that I said she's awesome. If you haven't read her work, you seriously are missing out. **GENIUS** I tell you.

Anyway, I'm thinking that this is going to be a longer fic than anything I've written, mostly because these little ideas keep popping up in my head. I hope you guys like reading long stories, though I'm hoping I'm not getting too ahead of myself. This is only the second chapter.

Decided to move my viewer reviews down to the bottom.

**DJDarkPixie: ** Have I ever told you that you're my favorite reviewer? Seriously, I LOVE your reviews. Thanks for the support! You were also the first to review, so thanks for that too!

**Emrys90:** I'm glad you like it! Thanks for taking the time to review!

**Yaythe1st:** I LOVE your username! I love it! Also thanks for reviewing. LOL yeah, my disclaimer was pretty out there...but totally freaking true.

**TVTime: **I love your long review! I legit squealed when I saw it! I'm glad that you see the Scott isn't a total jerk-face. And yes, it's safe to say that Stiles is a little off perception wise in this story. Thanks for reviewing!

**MiffedVorlon: **I'm glad you're interested. And the haunters aren't going anywhere anytime soon, so you'll get to know plenty about them. Thanks for reviewing!

Review and don't sugarcoat it.


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